Granter rose from the lacquered chair, jingling his coins. The most vivid pictures at that moment were, like a film, unrolled before his mind—of the grey sunlit river and that accosting blackguard with his twisted murky face and lips uttering hoarse sounds; of the yellow baby, and the girl’s gipsy-dark glance from behind it; of a police court, and himself standing there and letting the whole cartload of the law fall on them. He said suddenly:
“I was blackmailed this afternoon on the Embankment.”
She did not answer; and, turning with irritation, he saw that her fingers were in her ears.
“I do wish you wouldn’t jingle your money so!” she said.
Confound it! She had not heard him.
“I’ve had an adventure,” he began again. “You know the flower-girl who stands at that corner in Tite Street?”
“Yes; a gipsy baggage.”
“H’m! Well, I bought a flower from her one day, and she told me such a pathetic story that I went to her den to see if it was true. It seemed to be, so I gave her some money, don’t you know. Then I thought I’d better see how she was spending it, so I went to see her again, don’t you know.”
A faint “Oh! Charles!” caused him to hurry on.